


Tea With The Vicar (Or Not)

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Historical, Tea, yes I know I can't seem to help myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz isn't quite sure what to do with Jemma Simmons, who's come for tea with a vicar nowhere in sight. So he does the only reasonable thing: offers her tea. If he has to give up his sugar ration for the next week, it seems likely to be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea With The Vicar (Or Not)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atomicsupervillainess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/gifts).



“Mr. Coulson?”

Fitz started, hitting the back of his head on the underside of the desk so hard he saw stars. Thankfully, he was too stunned to say anything beyond a guttural, drawn-out “owwwwww”; the blue words that sprung to his addled mind were inappropriate for a vicar’s study.

“Oh, dear! Is there someone here?” High-heeled shoes clicked over the wooden floors, then became muffled as the mysterious source of his near braining reached the carpet by the desk. The sound made him want to groan again. No doubt this was yet another of the Women’s Club, come on some pretence to see the vicar while really making every attempt to take Fitz under their well-cushioned, talcum-scented wings. Since his arrival here three weeks ago he had been subjected to no less than four diatribes on how best to style his curly hair, two offers to knit him jumpers to replace the threadbare one he wore when he had to leave the rectory, and countless subtle introductions to sisters, nieces, and daughters—all conveniently unattached, of course. It was enough to drive a man mad. All he wanted to do was earn some money cataloguing Mr. Coulson’s impressive collection of spy devices and maybe get enough material for his thesis on the subject. He didn’t intend to put down roots in this stifling village, however fatherly the vicar was or how delicious his housekeeper’s teas.

“ ’m fine,” he muttered, trying and failing to get to his feet before she could reach him to start clucking.

“You’re obviously not,” the voice said, much closer this time. “Here, let me—” And then he felt a hand grab the back of his braces and tug, startling him enough that he actually managed to sit back on his heels and clutch the edge of the desk for support. He was vaguely aware that the woman had crouched as well, though he couldn’t make out her face through the green haze clouding his vision. “Is it just your head?” she asked, “and is it bleeding?”

“Oh, gosh, I hope not.” He felt a little sick just imagining it. “This is the only white shirt I’ve got.”

“And yet you’re scrabbling about under the desk in it.”

“It was an accident,” he protested muzzily, blinking several times in an attempt to clear his vision. If he could just see half a moment, he would feel infinitely more in charge of the situation. Only why was the sun so bright? He screwed up his face against it as he answered. “I don’t usually spend time under desks.”

It took a second to realize that the light touch of cool leather against his chin meant that she, whoever she was, had taken his face in her gloved hand and was now, presumably, trying to get him to look at her. “What do you usually do, then? What’s your name? Do you know where you are? And won’t you please open your eyes so I can ensure you don’t have a concussion?”

“My name’s Fitz, I’m usually studying but at present I’m working for Mr. Coulson, and we’re in his study. It’s a Thursday.” Making a supreme effort, he forced his eyelids up millimeter by painful millimeter. “And you’re a member of the Women’s Club.”

“Oh, no. That I am not. I only give hygiene lectures when I’m here during vacations. Silly, really, when there’s so many other topics I’m better able to lecture on, but apparently the women here aren’t interested in artificially-created imitations of naturally-occurring substances.”

Perhaps he had hit his head harder than he thought, because the sight that met him when his eyes flew open seemed too good to be true. Rather than the cozy matron he had expected, the woman crouched not a meter away from him with an adorably worried forehead was quite possibly the most beautiful girl he had seen in his life. A light went on in her honey-brown gaze as soon as it met his—possibly the first time in his life that had happened—and she tilted his head towards the sun pouring in the mullioned windows. “Ah,” she said, voice warming with pleasure, “yes, your pupils are dilating rather nicely. I think you’ve escaped this time, Mr. Fitz.” Letting go his chin, she got to her feet in one graceful motion and held out her hand to him. “Feel able to stand?”

Actually, he felt a bit weak about the knees, but he wasn’t going to say that to her. Waving off the proffered hand, he used the edge of the desk as leverage to push himself up. If he had to lean against it once he was on his feet, he thought he was nonchalant enough that she didn’t notice. “Um. Thanks.”

“It was the least I could do after startling you in the first place.” Her nose wrinkled up as she smiled, extending her hand for him to shake. “Jemma Simmons.”

“Fitz,” he said, shaking it, and immediately wanted to smack himself for telling her something she already knew. He’d love to blame it on the aftereffects of his war injury, but knew full well he had been this pathetic around pretty women his whole life. “Um, sorry. You’ve probably guessed by now that Mr. Coulson isn’t here.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure why—he asked me specifically to come talk with him about putting on a little science fair before term begins. I wish I had been here earlier; there’s hardly enough time to organize anything decent, but of course anything I can do to help the children gain an interest in the physical sciences—”

“He hasn’t said anything about it to me,” Fitz blurted out, too stung by the omission to worry about how he sounded. Mr. Coulson _knew_ he was a scientist and a good one too, after their many conversations over dinner; why would he plan a science fair and leave Fitz out of the planning? Especially when it would be done before he had to go back up to university? His work with the spy gear wasn’t _so_ time consuming.

Fortunately, she was too good-mannered to take notice of his poor ones. “Oh, are you a scientist too? That’s lucky. I was wondering who else I could get to judge who wouldn’t be biased or impressed by showy, bad science.”

_Too_ , he heard, and wondered again if he was actually lying unconscious under Mr. Coulson’s desk. “Yeah,” he managed to stammer. “I am. Are you?”

“Yes, I’m a biochemist.” Glancing at her watch, she looked around the room and sighed. “Do you have any idea when he’ll return? Only I’m supposed to have another appointment in an hour or so and I did want to get this sorted as soon as possible.”

His heart falling at the realization of what other appointments such a girl could have, he busied himself with rolling down the cuffs of his sleeves as casually as he could manage. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I know he planned to be here all afternoon, but that woman down the end of the village—the one who grows all the flowers?”

“Miss Queen,” Miss Simmons supplied.

He nodded without knowing if she was right. “She said she had another vision of the future and Mr. Coulson went down to try to talk her out of it.”

She raised one eloquent eyebrow. “He said talk her out of it?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but—”

“No, I rather thought not. It doesn’t do to ignore Miss Queen’s visions; they have a startling record of being right.”

“But you’re a scientist,” he said, gaping, “and Mr. Coulson’s a man of the cloth.”

She shrugged. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Well, he won’t be long, then; she usually manages to get these things out with dispatch. I shan’t disturb you if I wait, will I?”

Disturb was, he rather thought, the entirely wrong word choice—distract, absolutely, but that was only if he was going to try to do work with her sitting there. Which he most decidedly was not. No, he, Fitz, was going to take some of that courage he had found during the War and seize the opportunity now presenting itself if it killed him—and it might, too, if he didn’t first make sure this cockroach-shaped gas canister wasn’t leaking out everywhere under the desk. He ducked down casually and retrieved the bug, palming it into his pocket after verifying that the antennae were in the off position. She watched his actions curiously but without comment. “Er, no, I’m just about to have tea. Care to—” The words stalled on his tongue, curse his wretched hypoxia, of all times to flare up— “I mean, would you like to join me while you wait?”

The smile that broke across her face was bright enough to turn a man from a living being to a pile of carbon in about a second flat; he frankly doubted the atomic bomb was any brighter. “I’d love to,” she said without hesitation, “there are no teas anywhere as good as May’s, and then you can tell me what kind of science you do and what that little device you’ve put in your pocket is.”

Feeling a bit dazed, or perhaps dazzled, Fitz offered her the pick of seats and went down the hall to speak to May. The small Chinese woman who, Fitz had learned, ran Mr. Coulson’s life with the silent, fearless hand of a lion-tamer, nodded at his request. “Miss Simmons will want jam roll,” she said briefly. “That means none for you all week.”

“Fine,” he nodded, “I can do without.” It would be a hard week without sweets—rationing was beastly—but not important in the long run. “Just, oh, Mrs. May, could you do it as quickly as possible? She says she has an appointment in an hour and it would be a pity to—” He broke off at her unimpressed face and began backing away. “Never mind, thank you, whenever you can manage it.”

Outside the study door, he took a deep breath to settle himself. Nerves were silly, it was just a girl, he had practically been in the Army, for goodness’ sake, was this worse than Burma? Absolutely not. Even if she was breathtaking and quite possibly utterly brilliant. Still, he shoved his bad hand in his pocket before pushing the door open. It had a tendency to act up at times like this, and the last thing he wanted was to be pitied.

She looked up at the sound of the door, granting him another heart-stopping smile. Oh God, he thought, not irreverently, she’s sat directly in a sunbeam. I’m going to die. At least it will be pleasant this time.

“I’ve been trying to think,” she said, “what it is, exactly, you could be doing for Mr. Coulson. You don’t look like a curate to me. Anyway, a curate would hardly identify himself as a scientist. And since the science fair is still theoretical, you can’t be here for that. Then I thought, it must be to do with the bug? At least, I don’t expect you’d put a cockroach in your pocket, but—”

“Yeah, no,” he said, “it’s a weapon. If it worked, it would leach out a poisonous gas—”

“How diabolical!”

“Yes, rather? But very handy in a tight spot, I imagine, and quite ingenious.” The device happened to be in the pocket he had shoved his hand into, but with only a moment’s trepidation he pulled them both out to pass it off to her before collapsing in a chair a safe distance away. “You can look at it if you like. Just don’t pull on the right antenna. That’s what disperses the toxin.”

Flipping it over, she tapped it, smelled it, and shook it before cocking her head to one side and asking, “What toxin is it? And do you know what the shell is made of?”

As Fitz had spent a good deal of time with that particular device, cataloguing its materials and efficacy and history before throwing it all out to suggest an infinitely superior version, he was able to hold forth at some length about it. She listened attentively, interrupting only to let him know when he was explaining something she already knew about and filling his now-familiar pauses with exactly the word or phrase he was searching for. His explanation complete, she carefully set the device down on the round table beside her chair and clasped her hands together over her knee. “Well, that’s certainly fascinating. My work has a great deal to do with this kind of thing—weaponizing chemicals, that is—but dispersal methods are outside my purview, sadly. I wish I knew more about it.”

He was about to ask about her work—it was only fair, and if he was more than a little intrigued by the practical potential who could blame him?—when Mrs. May came in with the tea tray and all conversation ceased. Fitz’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. He hadn’t seen a spread like this since before the War: the whole sugar bowl, a jam roll, proper filled sandwiches, clotted cream. “Is someone else coming?” he asked before he thought.

May fixed him with a look that flipped his tongue back on itself. “Mr. Coulson, I thought. And we have company already.”

“Oh, but it’s too much!” Miss Simmons protested as May sat the tray down in front of her. “It must be the whole ration.”

“That’s my business. But even if it was, it’s no matter. Mr. Coulson has always been fond of you. He’d like you to have it.” And May nodded firmly, allowing for no more discussion. After the door closed behind her, Miss Simmons looked across the glorious tea to him, somewhat apologetically.

“But it’s your ration too, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

“No matter,” he said, extremely interested in the patch of carpet in front of him. “Um, it’s better—tastes better with good company, I think.”

“It isn’t no matter, but thank you anyway.” Her voice took on a brisk tone. “Shall I be mother?”

He popped to his feet, waving her away from the teapot. “No, no, you’re the guest. I’ll pour. How d’you take it?”

“A bit of milk, thank you. I’ve never been partial to sweetness in my tea.”

“I was, but that much honey spoils the flavor.”

He poured carefully, willing his hand not to shake, and handed her the cup gingerly. Despite his best efforts, a bit of tea splashed into the saucer during the transfer; he would have been fine if he hadn’t been startled by the coolness of her fingers against his. He hadn’t realized she had taken off her gloves. Busying himself with his own cup, he avoided thinking about the lingering sense of electricity that tingled up his arm. Static electricity was a powerful force.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “Mr. Coulson may have been fond of me, but he’s never let me handle his toys, and I once memorized the entire book of James to please him. I’m rather curious how you pulled off such trust?”

“First, they’re not toys—”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not really.”

“Second, I was hired for it, so it would be odd if I couldn’t touch them.”

Leaning forward to put a sandwich on a small plate, she paused long enough to roll her eyes again. “Yes, but how did you even get the job? How did you know such a thing existed? We’re rather out of the way here. Would you like some jam roll?”

“Yes, thank you.” He accepted the plate and considered, trying to find the middle ground between what he wanted to say and what he was allowed to say. “We had a mutual friend,” he finally settled on. “In the War. At least, I knew him in the War, but Mr. Coulson knew him from before. He knew I was interested in this kind of thing and told me to look Mr. Coulson up if I ever had a chance. Well—” Choked on the memory, he took a sip of tea in hope that she would chalk the truncated sentence to a dry throat. From the sympathy rolling off her in waves, he didn’t think she was fooled.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shrugged. “It happened. Anyway, when I got out from war work and went back to my studies I thought of Mr. Coulson’s collection and wrote him. Apparently, a friend of Trip’s is a friend of his.”

“He was that kind of man,” she said, setting her fork down with a soft clink. “Of course, everybody was Trip’s friend. You just had to see him smile to feel like everything would be all right.”

“Oh, you knew him?” He peered up at her through his eyelashes, trying to make it look like he was highly invested in his scone. In truth, he was trying to match the sadness in her face and voice with a level of _knowing_. Friends? Acquaintances? More? Not that it mattered. Two people could have tea together regardless of any other attachments.

“Yes, he was from here. He and my friend Daisy…we had hoped…” Now it was her turn to cut herself off. Rather than hide behind her tea, though, she pressed her lips together in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and changed the subject brightly. “So you knew him in the Army. What did you do?”

He shook his head. “Only on a project or two—I was in a different department entirely, and then I got wounded and had to come home.”

“So what did you do?”

Worried that she would ask about his injury—a subject he never spoke about and wasn’t in fact sure why he had done so now—he had a brief moment of relief before realizing that question was even more tricky to answer. He still hadn’t come up with an answer that didn’t scream _classified_. “Um—” He squirmed under her forthright gaze. “Well, it was—it was in the more administrative departments of the army. We did a lot of things, all very dull.”

“Marvelous,” she said, “me too. Let’s just take that as read, then.”

Hang on, did that mean—He knew the astonished look on his face was entirely unbecoming, but she simply laughed into her teacup, banishing the cloud that had entered the room with Trip’s name. “What, you don’t think the fairer sex could contribute?”

“No, of course not,” he said, “I worked with some brilliant women, I know they can.”

“Is it me then? You don’t think I could?”

His response was even quicker this time. “No. No, not at all. Look, I’m making a hash of this, I’m sorry. I’m really trying to work on my poker face. If I’m surprised, it’s only because that means you’re even more clever than I already thought.”

“Oh!” She looked quickly out the window, but not so fast that he couldn’t watch the pleased smile blooming across her face. “Well, I am clever. I readily admit that. So are you, though! When you say ‘interested in this kind of thing’, do you mean—”

“Oh no.” He held up a hand to stop her, gulping back his tea quickly. “I’ve already told you a great deal about me. I want to hear about you.” Her flush grew deeper, and he began one of his own to match. “Your work, that is. I can make dispersal mechanisms until I’m blue in the face but what I’m dispersing, exactly…”

Of course he meant what he said at first: he did want to hear about her, about growing up in the village and how she became interested in biochemistry and what she was doing now and how he had managed to miss her entirely in the three weeks he had lived here. But he knew better than to let his curiosity run away with him. It was the Long Vac., after all; there were still five weeks left before he would have to leave—plenty of time to learn the answers to all those questions. So he gave himself up to the not inconsiderate pleasure of listening to an expert in her field lecture on a subject she was passionate about. Though he personally could have done without the detailed description of the enzymes of the digestive tract and their effects on various organic materials, the lecturer was charming enough to make up for any of the natural queasiness he could not manage to break himself of. The longer he listened, though, the more he became aware of an entirely different kind of queasiness: not the painful ache that signified a hasty evacuation of his stomach contents, but a gentle flutter that seemed to make his heart beat faster and his brain work quicker.

At the end of her lecture, she sighed and sank back into the arm of the sofa. “That was probably more than you wanted to know. I’m afraid I can’t quite help it; when I have an attentive audience I tend to get swept up in it.”

“Not more than I wanted to know,” he said, “and I don’t blame you. When you care about something, you want to share it.”

“Yes, exactly.” She leaned forward eagerly. “That’s why I was so keen about the science fair. I’d love to help children see the wonders they can discover in the world around them. Since Mr. Coulson mentioned it I haven’t been able to stop it burbling around in the back of my mind. I’ve got heaps of plans already.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I thought it might be fun to have little experiments that children who aren’t presenting could perform—you know, like baking soda and vinegar, or what things float, or things like that.”

He smiled, remembering. “The first prototype I ever built was a boat made from a tin.”

Nodding, she set her tea down to reach for her little purse. “My first experiment was something small like that, too. I’ve made a list of everything I can remember—if I can only find it—”

The list found, she moved to the other side of the sofa to better show him. He read it thoughtfully, mind already sparking with ideas. “If it’s a fair,” he said slowly, “there ought to be more than just the one competition. Perhaps a design contest—paper airplanes or towers made of cards—you know, something that demonstrates simple principles while allowing for innovation.”

“Brilliant,” she said, searching for something to write with. He handed her a pencil from his pocket and she scribbled it down. “There ought to be different classes, don’t you think? Plant-based experiments oughtn’t be judged against chemical ones, and those shouldn’t be judged against children who build things.”

He snapped his fingers. “Animal, mineral, vegetable.”

Thinking he would have to explain, he was only a little surprised when she caught his meaning straight off. “Man-made, non-living organic, living organic? Perfect. There may be some difficulties about who is entered in which class, but between the two of us we ought to be able to sort it, don’t you think?”

She looked at him quizzically and his heart swelled up in his chest. He had had every intention of demanding to be involved, but it looked as though she just assumed that he would be. And with Mr. Coulson being so fond of her, he didn’t imagine there would be a row about it at all. He fought back the grin that wanted to overtake him. “Between the two of us,” he repeated, not quite able to keep it from his voice. “Yeah, I think we can.”

For the first time that day, the end of his sentence was allowed to dissipate into the air alone, rather than being immediately followed by the beginning of hers. It was an odd sensation; already he had become accustomed to her matching him at every step. Then, too, if she wasn’t speaking he had no reason to still be watching her so intently—none, that is, beyond the fact that she was watching him intently, too, her eyes soft and serious and something else he couldn’t quite name. Surprise, maybe, or disbelief. None of which, he felt, were the natural result of what he had said. Dropping his gaze, he moved the handle of his teacup to perpendicular and cleared his throat. “Um, Miss Simmons, I hope I’m not shoving myself in where I’m not wanted.”

“Jemma,” she said. “I’d like it if you called me Jemma. And no, please don’t worry. I want you—that is, your _help_ , as long as you’re offering.”

“Yeah,” he said again, still looking into his tea. But this time he could not keep the smile back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hand clench into a fist before releasing. When she spoke again, it was with a business-like firmness that only barely masked an odd quiver. “Good, that’s settled, then. What do you think we should do about prizes?”

They hashed out details for the next who-knows-how-long, covering everything from logistics of venue to whether there should be age classes within the subjects to the color paint they would need for the advertisements and bunting. It was going to be a glorious fair, they agreed, the like of which had not been seen in the county and would never be topped except by next year’s. Between plans they meandered off on tangents both related and rabbity, blissfully following the conversation wherever it decided to go. He had never, he thought, had so much fun. And if Fitz somehow found himself seated on the sofa beside her, their knees almost touching as they passed their mocked-up layouts and the Sunday School rolls between them—well, she didn’t seem to mind.

He wasn’t sure how long they had worked before she took a long draught of tea at the end of a rather involved argument—she won this one, as she had most of them—and made a horrible face. “Bother, now my tea’s gone cold and I’ve talked your ear off.”

“I don’t mind.” He got up and felt the teapot, making sure it was still warm before holding out his hand in a silent request for her cup. “But I’m sorry Mr. Coulson hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.” A thought occurred and he brought the stream of tea to a halt. “Wait, your appointment—do you even want this tea?”

“Oh, I’m not going now. I should have been there a quarter of an hour ago. So yes, the tea, thank you.”

Looking at his watch, he let out a sharp cry of dismay. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice.”

She moved forward on the seat, leaning with her forearms braced against her knees to let the barest flight of her fingers brush against his sleeve. The fluttering sensation matched the one in his stomach perfectly. “No, Fitz, don’t be sorry. I’m not.”

“You aren’t?” he croaked out, unable to do anything more than clutch the teapot helplessly.

“Well—” She paused, bringing both hands up to wrap around her neck. “It’s just, this is the first interesting conversation I’ve had in Lord knows how long. Most of the time people go glassy-eyed around me. Or I go glassy-eyed around them, which is worse. But with you, I don’t feel that way. It’s as though every bit of my brain is working, like talking with you uses all of me…oh, I’m not making any sense.”

“No!” He put both cup and pot down on the table and returned to his seat, twisting to face her even if she wouldn’t look at him. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s the same. I feel the same.”

She laughed a little, eyes still concentrated on the table. “That’s what I mean. I think we understand each other, don’t you? And so I can’t regret not making my yearly call to the Koenigs. All they want to do is ask me a lot of silly questions, anyway.”

“Two brothers?” he asked, remembering vaguely. “Look scarily alike?”

“There used to be three.” She shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Two is quite bad enough.”

She gave him an amused glance from the corner of her eye. Then, turning to finally look at him, she reached out to rest her hand on his forearm. “I’m glad we’ve met, Fitz.”

There were a million things he wanted to say to her: _I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership_ , like the movie, or _how lucky we are to be here_ , or _when can I see you again?_ But any of those felt too presumptuous, so he only said “Me too” and smiled, trying to put everything else into that.

The door opened with a tremendous rattling of the doorknob and an unearthly groan, announcing Mr. Coulson’s presence before his stooped shoulders and self-deprecating smile were visible. Jemma’s hand flew off his arm as if he could burn her and he slid all the way to the other arm of the sofa, just to be safe. “Well, well,” Mr. Coulson said as he entered, paying no more attention to them than he did to the empty chairs. “Please accept my apologies, Miss Simmons, for not making our appointment. I finished up with Miss Queen in plenty of time but as I was coming home I passed the Hunters’ cottage and there was so much shouting, I felt it my duty to stop in and see what I could do to help.”

“Of course,” Jemma said, “and I hope everything was all right.”

“For now.” Mr. Coulson and Jemma shared a knowing look Fitz wasn’t privy to. He supposed there was some history with the Hunters that he would learn in time. Gesturing to the tea, Mr. Coulson moved on. “Oh good, you’ve had your tea. The least I could do. Will you stay for dinner? I really do want to talk to you about the science fair.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she protested at the same time he said, “we’ve already got quite a lot sorted.”

Not for the first time, Fitz reflected that he had never met anyone as good at hiding his thoughts as Mr. Coulson. Perhaps all his spy devices imported some sort of secret powers. “If you’ve already got ideas,” the vicar said, “you have to stay, Miss Simmons, and help Fitz explain them. I’m sure May won’t mind. I think it’s stew tonight, anyway.”

“She has a joint roasting,” Fitz corrected, not sure how Mr. Coulson had forgotten since he had especially asked her to get one from the butcher that morning.

“Bless my soul, so she does. Well, all the more reason. You must stay and help us enjoy the treat.”

“Oh, I—” Jemma looked between them anxiously, asking a question he thought he understood.

“We’d love to have you,” he answered her.

“Fitz will walk you home after,” Mr. Coulson added.

“Well then.” Her smile was not, perhaps, as secret as she thought it was, and it did something curious to his insides. “I’ll love to stay.”

Good thing, too, as May had already set a fourth place at the table and made an extra jacket potato.

Passing the kitchen after he had walked Jemma home, Fitz was almost too preoccupied thinking of their conversation and the way she seemed to reflect the moonlight to pay attention to the murmurs emanating from within. He probably would have walked right by had he not heard the clink of tea things. There had been, he thought, a little bit of jam roll left after Jemma had done with it; perhaps they were finishing it up. He pushed the door partway open and stopped, arrested by the now-clear conversation.

“Just be sure to get your story straight with the Hunters. You know Jemma will be tactful about it and you don’t want them giving anything away.”

“Oh, they won’t have any problems coming up with a row. They probably _had_ a row today, actually. How they are my happiest marriage I don’t understand.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Yes indeed.” Mr. Coulson was pleased as punch. “ Like today. Couldn’t have worked better if I had planned it.”

“You did,” May said drily. “You’ve been having me save sugar rations since you heard when she was coming back from her house party.”

“Sweets were required, May. A good tea makes a person more open to pleasurable experiences. Food also make Fitz more talkative, which he had to be or I think he would have just stared at her all night.”

There was a clatter of dishes. “They would have talked without sweets. They have everything in common.”

“I know.” Fitz could almost see the haze of smugness surrounding Mr. Coulson. “Which is why I knew it would work.”

“I told you it would work.”

“Fine. _We_ knew it would work.”

“Five weeks isn’t a lot of time.”

“It’s enough. When you’re that good together, you don’t need a lot of time.” A chair creaked. “You watch, May. That 1812 dueling pistol of yours will be mine.”

Fitz clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle his strangled “what?” that threatened to escape. He wasn’t sure what was more alarming: that Mrs. May owned a dueling pistol or that said firearm was the stakes in some sort of bet between the vicar and his housekeeper, the uncertain terms of which had something to do with himself and Jemma. No, probably that was the most alarming thing. Even without knowing exactly what it was about (and what in the world could it be about that would be worth scrimping on sugar rations?) he was a bit put out about being a pawn in a game. Working for Mr. Coulson didn’t give the man the right to meddle in his affairs. Backing away to sneak quietly up the stairs, Fitz determined to resist the machinations. He would not be pushed into anything with Jemma. He would refuse to be any friendlier with her than he, of his own volition, wished.

Of course, when she appeared in the study the following afternoon with a book he had expressed interest in borrowing and a much better idea for how to handle the situation should they be presented with two similar projects, it was foolish to pretend that he did not wish to be quite friendly indeed. She was just so much the nicest, cleverest person he had ever known; to refuse her company because of a half-heard conversation was beyond stupid. Caught in the beam of her smile, he didn’t notice when Coulson excused himself with a murmur of visiting a sick parishioner, or stoking the fire in the church, or something. Nor did he care. By the time they had finished the (decidedly more bare) tea, the conversation was as forgotten as if he had never heard it.

And when, five weeks later, she set down her celebratory teacup full of sherry and pulled him to her by his braces, he drank deeply of her feather-soft, impossibly sweet lips for a full minute before he thought he had better say something. “Merely for your information,” he said, “I think Mr. Coulson and Mrs. May threw us together so this would happen.”

“Mmm.” Her hand caressed his sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“No. Only there was a bet.”

Amusement lit her eyes, even more intoxicating at this distance. “Who won?”

In response he kissed her again. Truthfully, no matter whose was the dueling pistol, he was the winner.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is primarily atomicsupervillainess's fault—by which I mean, she said RABBIT WRITE THE THING and I said "noo" and then, a second later, "yess." Then she helped me sort out the copious amounts of backstory that didn't make it in and sent me down a fascinating rabbit trail about rations, and was generally (as always) marvelous. The rest of it is Pi's, who made the glorious manip that inspired the whole thing. I only wrote it down. 
> 
> One day I'll write something that's not a period piece. One day, I swear.


End file.
